


DA Poly Week

by olliolli_oxenfree



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Circle of Magi, Kinloch Hold, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olliolli_oxenfree/pseuds/olliolli_oxenfree
Summary: A reposting of my old DA:PW fills so they're in chaptered form rather than parts. Chapter titles are the prompts. Last edits took place in 2016.





	1. Well, well - what do we have here?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who reblogged / gave kudos / left comments / and bookmarked the original postings here on AO3 and on tumblr!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted under the title "Cargo".

He hasn’t set foot outside in five years. Not since he was dragged kicking, screaming, _begging_ to the Gallows. The docks are so shrouded in fog he can barely make out the shapes of the boats in port. Behind him Kirkwall rises, a mass of foreboding energy pressing down on him. When he had first been taken to the Circle, he would have given anything to see it again. To get lost in the maze of streets and alleys. To run home, for his mother to scoop him up in her arms and his father to allow him to read a tome in his study. To see Darktown, even, just for a chance to get away. Now, he never wants to set foot in the City of Chains again.

His hands are, both ironically yet not ironically enough, bound in front of him in wooden manacles. They’re a needless precaution. All either of his templar escorts need to control him is to cleanse the area of magic. What do they expect him to do? Break into the crates of lyrium? Probably. The bottles and their storage containers have been wrapped and rewrapped to resist water and salt. Each crate lifted by two men under the supervision of a third, and put in its own special compartment for transportation. Even his phylactery has been given better care than he has.

Finally, after three hours of standing still in the predawn fog, he is permitted to board. Around him, the sailors mutter darkly and cast him hostile glares. It’s possible the templars have told them. Right. Because the _first_ thing a storm mage would do on the open sea is start blindly shooting off bolts of lightning. He’s not _that_ clueless. He is shoved below deck, in with the barrels and chests of goods heading for a city he only knows because the shouting workers on the docks have not been discreet. _Amaranthine._ Try as he might, he can’t remember which country the city lies in, or if he’s even heard of it.

Seafare was, without a doubt, the worst way to travel. Cramped in with the templars and trading goods, it was all he could do to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. His escorts could at least take breaks. Thrice a day, one would dispel the magic that had built up, if any could, and stretch their legs above deck. Each had three breaks, and each one of the six times his magic was cleansed he would clench his jaw against the fresh waves of nausea. They were not going to have the satisfaction of making him clean his own sick.

Much as the sailors had detested him coming onto the boat, they had no problem with him being the last thing _off_ the boat. The lyrium was the first thing moved, treated with as much care here as it had been in Kirkwall. He was ushered above deck and onto the pier after the last of the trade crates had been safely unloaded. Another set of templars was waiting with the lyrium. They spoke briefly with his escort. One was to remain until the ship returned to the Free Marches, a guest of the Chantry. The other was to continue on to the Circle, where they would report for their new station. This was news, to him at least. The templar designated to continue with him clapped the other on the shoulder, and wished them a pleasant journey home.

Amaranthine was a port city with a dialect he couldn’t place. The Chantry shocked him in its modesty, tucked snugly into the walls of the city like a chapel in a Kirkwall estate. He saw the city and the building for all of two minutes before he was sat in a wagon cart and on his way through the countryside. Even the novelty of being _outside_ was wearing thin. It would be better if he could walk properly, but he didn’t dare test the leniency of the two new templars with one from the Gallows so near. They could at least do him the dignity of taking his manacles off.

He discovered the templar that came with him from Kirkwall had an interest in geography. The first night, a map was procured to explain the lay of the land. On the other side of the camp, under the watchful eye of the third templar, he picked out words like _Bannorn_ and _Calenhad_. The latter was infuriatingly familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it. It did spark the glimmer of a plan in the back of his mind. The road they were traveling wove between the slopes of a hilly range. While wood was fairly impervious to lightning, it still burned.

On the fifth day, he saw the Circle. A giant spire of stone stretching endlessly towards the sky, in the middle of a lake. Kinloch Hold, one of the native templars called it. It didn’t matter; escape from such a place was impossible. When they approached the docks, this time he was the first one on the boat. Two templars boarded after him, one remaining behind to come across with the crates of lyrium. An hour on the lake got him as queasy as a week at sea. From the base, the tower was immense. Rising farther than his eye could see, just looking at it quickened his breath. The thought of going inside, somehow, seemed more final than the Gallows. He was marched in, a templar holding each shoulder.

A group of mages were chatting near the entrance, supervised by what could only be the Knight-Commander. Meredith, no matter what time of day or night, was always present at the arrival of a new mage. No reason the tower should be any different. His suspicions were confirmed when the templar that had joined them in Amaranthine bowed and addressed the man as Knight-Commander Greagoir. An odd thing the bow was, too, with hands crossed and balled on the shoulders. One of the gathered mages put an arm around the shoulders of an elf.

“Come, dear.”

“Yes, Wynne.”

Another mage came over, a welcoming smile on his face for the templars. The mage looked down at him, and the smile softened into something believable. “Welcome to you. I am the First Enchanter, Irving.”

The _First Enchanter_ greeted new mages? Orisino had never been granted such a liberty. As rigid as Meredith was in meeting all mages new to the Gallows, she was just as inflexible in making certain Orisino was never with her. He himself had only seen Orisino shortly after arriving in the Gallows because another apprentice had pointed the elf out to him. They had only met when Orisino had come to give him to his escort out of Kirkwall.

Irving motioned for the Kirkwall templar to undo his bindings. Another magic cleanse, and his hands were free. He was promptly sick over the templar’s boots. Irving chuckled sympathetically and drew him aside. A wash of healing magic settled his stomach. Irving drew him away, past the eyes of countless templars to the apprentice dorms. Purple robes were placed in his arms to replace the grey robes of the Gallows, and Irving left. He pulled on the robes of Kinloch Hold and the door opened. The elf he had seen earlier, an apprentice as well, entered followed by a boy. Both were roughly his age. The elf spoke, large eyes sizing him up.

“They’ve placed your phylactery in the basement. Irving said you were from Kirkwall.”

“Where is Kirkwall?”

“In the Free Marches.” Both gave him blank looks. “Where’s this?”

The elf answered. “Ferelden.”

He knew Ferelden. Before being taken to the Gallows, it had seemed further away and stranger than Rivain to the northeast.

“What’s your name?”

“Amell.”

The boy cackled. “What kind of name is that?”

“Mine.”

“Did the Chantry give it to you?”

He squinted at the boy. “It’s a family name.”

The elf blinked. “Why use your family name?”

“Everyone in the Gallows uses their family name.” Everyone who had one to use.

The elf nodded and indicated herself. “Then call me Surana. This is—”

The boy pushed Surana’s arm aside to introduce himself. “Jowan. Don’t know if I have a family name. Have to tell me your proper name, now.”

Did he remember his name? It had been so long since anyone had used it. His mother had screamed it, trying to reach him through the templars that had come to collect him. His father had held her back, whispering his name like a prayer to Andraste.

“Caedan.” Jowan grinned.


	2. To work!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted under the title "Discrepancies".

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

Surana is standing over him. Large eyes observe him, waiting for a proper response. “That. As soon as lessons and meals are over, you stop. You just stand there looking lost."

“The Templars haven’t told me what to do yet.”

Her ears flick back when her eyes widen. The elves of the Circle are careful to keep their ears still, so their emotions will be hidden from the Templars. Whatever he just said must be very alarming.

“Is that what they do in the Gallows?” Her voice is small, breathless with disbelief. He nods.

Surana watches him a moment longer, then snatches his hand. They run the loop of the outer corridor until Surana spots a Templar. He slows, but Surana grips his hand tighter and brings them in front of the knight.

“We’re going to the library.”

The announcement is treated as though she had done no more than tell the time. A bemused, “Alright, then,” and Surana readjusts her grip to lead him off.

They walk this time, but when she leads him past the center stairwell he panics. “You said we were going to the library!”

“I changed my mind.”

Surana takes them to another set of stairs further around the loop. They go down, and he finds himself in the apprentices quarters.

“There you are, Caedan!” Jowan calls from his mattress. “Thought you got lost again!” Another apprentice is sitting on the mattress where he usually sits. He knows better than to think of anything in the Circle as actually being _his_ , but his gaze lingers nonetheless. Jowan notices, and slides over to make room. Surana remains standing.

“Nice to meet you,” the stranger extends a hand. Caedan can sense the stamp of nobility on him in the way he enunciates. It’s as hard a habit to shake as it is to stop looking for a window. “My name is—”

Jowan cuts him off with a snicker. “His name is _Flora_.”

The apprentice reddens. “My _name_ is Florian— Please, call me Finn. Please.”

Caedan can’t help it. He laughs, too. “Your name is _Florian_ —”

“His name is Finn.” Surana interrupts. Finn casts her a grateful look.

Finn is from a small family in a place called the West Hills. They trade stories of what they remember. Finn is fascinated by Kirkwall, just as much as he is mystified by Ferelden. He doesn’t realize the panic in his gut is settled until a Templar comes to escort them to their afternoon lessons. Then he remembers, and drags his steps as he waits for the Templar to separate him and Surana from the others.

It doesn’t happen.

Not that day, or even the next. A full week has passed before he finds it in him to confront Surana.

“Why didn’t we go to the library?”

“When?”

“When you told the Templar. We went to the dorms instead.”

“Oh. Then. Because we could.”

He doesn’t quite understand at first. Then, he remembers. Before his magic manifested itself, when he lived on the estate with his parents. He didn’t need permission for everything. Aside from lessons and meals, he was free to do as he pleased. He _had_ done as he pleased. Snuck into Lowtown with other children. Played outside until their mothers came to gather them in from the night. Tossed Caprices into the fountains because it was done in Orlais.

They don’t meet often, but when they do he calls Finn Flora. Because he can.

* * *

He drags his fingers along the stone curve of the outer wall. The stone is not so thick. If he tried, _really_ tried, he would likely be able to blast through with a single spell. He still has an explosive Dworkin made. No wall of human construct could stand up to one of those.

Behind him, his companions are speaking. Words lost to him under the ones he mutters aloud. Soft and murmured so they don’t carry to the Templars. His hair is long. He has practiced blood magic and none have dared call him maleficar. The Queen herself has given him right of passage in Ferelden where the Warden treaties fail. He is going to leave the tower. He will find Morrigan. _He is the Grey Warden Commander of Vigil’s Keep, and no Templar shall_ —

“Your name is…?”

The mage sighs. “Florian Phineas—”

Caedan brings a fist down on his palm. “Flora!”

Finn groans. “Call me Finn. _Please._ "


	3. Now we see blood!

_Love_ wasn’t something mages allowed themselves. Loyalty was. Even though he, Jowan, and Surana had drifted apart as companions when they left their early adult years behind, it hadn’t for an instant crossed any of their minds to stop being friends. Physical affection in the Circle was...it had to be different, from what little he still remembered of Kirkwall. Kinloch Hold was a far cry from the Gallows in that respect, anyway. The apprentice quarters were too tightly packed for anyone to be leery of such nearness. Just because they were no longer fucking didn’t mean they’d stopped piling on top of one another while they studied or kept themselves from sleeping in the same bed. Not that they’d abandoned fucking altogether, either. It was easier by far when the fancy overtook them to go find a friend.

Caedan hoped he was a better friend than he was an obedient mage. A strict follower of the Circle’s tenets would have run off to the First Enchanter or, Maker forbid, the Knight-Commander at the first sign of anything Jowan had tried to pull. He likely lost a few points in the _good friend_ category when he pushed Surana in a closet and locked the door when she bristled at Jowan’s plan, but such were the risks one took when one was still reeling from the Harrowing.

“It’s all well and good for _you_ ,” Jowan muttered. “Senior Enchanter Wynne’s been mentoring Surana since the Chantry brought her here, and First Enchanter Irving took a shine to you.” While the First Enchanter never formally took on an apprentice as a student, that hadn’t stopped Irving from inviting Caedan into his study for extra lessons. Now that his Harrowing was passed and he was a mage of the Circle, it might be made official.

He never counted on Jowan practicing _blood magic_.

Thank the Maker for Duncan.

Grey Wardens weren’t spoken of in the Circle often, but some mages at least knew what they were. The fact he had to chance to meet one made him nearly as giddy as passing his Harrowing had. He practically jumped at Duncan’s offer to let him join.

He could leave the Circle.

_He could leave the Circle._

He should have known it was too good to be true. Now Duncan was gone, and Caedan had to go back.

Alistair approached him the night before they reached the docks of Lake Calenhad. He’d been irritable all day, unable to keep still even for another of Leliana’s cooking lessons. Magic crackled in his fingers as he paced between his tent and the fire. If it weren’t for the rumors they’d overheard in the last village, he would have saved going to the Circle until they were certain they needed mages. Maybe, say, _after_ they had dealt with the Archdemon.

“It’s not forever, you know,” Alistair stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. “Just in long enough to wave the treaties around and get their help.”

Caedan scoffed. “If it’s anything like the fiasco with the elves, I doubt it will be that simple.”

The grip on his shoulder tightened. “You’re not staying there. Even if I have to carry you out myself.” Caedan still wasn’t sure what constituted as appropriate between friends outside the Circle. Instead of the hug he would have given another mage, he settled for clasping his hand over Alistair’s.

His trepidation turned to dread when they were refused passage across the lake.

“Fine, fine!” the Templar finally caved, “But you only get one trip, and the boat won't fit all of you!”

Caedan looked up at the tower. Up, and up, and up. It looked no less imposing than it had when he and his phylactery first arrived. More so, if possible. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked Alistair in a low tone. “About carrying me out?”

Alistair nodded, no hint of his usual humor in his face. “You’re a Warden. They’re not taking you from me, too.”

He picked Alistair and Sten, and was deciding between Leliana or Zevran when Morrigan took the choice from him. “You _want_ to go?”

“I wish to see for myself what becomes of mages who submit themselves to the Chantry.”

He took a moment to consider. All her skill and power, unchecked and unrestrained by the Circle’s teaching… He loathed to give up having it by his side. Still, it would mean taking her _into_ the Circle. “You’d be seen as an apostate. An illegal mage.”

“And what meaning does that word hold? _I_ have certainly never considered myself such.”

If it weren’t for the Templar nearby he would kiss her. Really, that was what decided it. Templars trying to deal with _Morrigan_.

“Be good,” he told Thalsian. The dog _whuffed_ and bumped his head against Caedan’s stomach. The Templar received a growl.

His bravado quelled when he was expected to board the rowboat. A gentle wave rocked it against the dock, and nausea rolled through him. Alistair stepped ahead, standing in the middle and tilting it a few times with his weight despite the Templar’s frantic objections. “Sten _might_ be pushing it,” he grinned as he held out his hand, “but if it breaks we could all just swim over on his back.” Caedan held his hand tight enough to hide the shaking as he climbed in. Alistair sat next to him, keeping on a one-sided conversation during the voyage. Caedan squeezed his eyes shut, head resting on steepled fingers as they crossed.

He was expecting bad, not _Rite of Annulment_.

Rage overrode caution. “Did you even _try?_ ” he screamed at Greagoir. The Knight-Commander avoided his gaze, and as stunning as that was the realization of what it meant dropped like a pit in Caedan’s stomach. The Templars _hadn’t_ tried. Everyone was locked in with demons and abominations and Maker knew what else. The Tranquil, the apprentices, everyone…

Caedan blasted through anything foolish enough to stand in his way. The weakness in the Veil practically made his magic bypass his staff. He abhorred the Circle with every fiber of his being, but for better or worse that didn’t change the fact that these walls had been his home for twelve years of his life. Circle mages were a family born of necessity, and family didn’t turn on family when the only other option was the Templar Order.

“ _Wynne?_ ” he gasped when they found the mages, “I thought— Ostagar—!”

“We survived, thank goodness,” she looked just as shocked to see him.

“What’s happened?”

“This is Uldred’s doing.”

“ _Uldred—?_ ”

“ _You!_ ”

Caedan pivoted. If it weren’t for all the fighting he’d done since becoming a Warden, he couldn’t have blocked Surana’s spell.

Shit. _Surana._

“Do you have _any idea_ how long I was in that closet?” she demanded, a ball of fury that barely came up to his chest and made him fear for his life, “And when I’m finally let out _Jowan’s a blood mage_ and _you’re_ an apostate—”

“A Warden.”

“A _Warden_ ,” Surana spat. “When everyone comes back from Ostagar the Wardens are _dead_ and that same evening I’m dragged off to the Harrowing Chamber—!”

“Congratulations?”

Wynne stepped between them before Surana threw herself at him. “That is enough. _Both_ of you. Amell, someone had to let you back in. Where are the Templars?”

“They—! They…” Reality crushed down on him. “They’ve called for the Rite of Annulment, Senior Enchanter,” and suddenly he was an apprentice new to the Circle, terrified of powers above and in him he had no hope of understanding. “What do we do?”

A horrified silence fell over the mages.

Surana laughed weakly. “Annulment... ”

Wynne drew their attention with a brisk clap of her hands. “If we were truly beyond hope, Amell could not have come to us. We must stop Uldred and his followers, before any more lives are lost. I will go with Amell. Petra, keep the apprentices guarded. I realize there is danger of the Templars getting in, but—”

“They won’t.”

Surana turned, gathered energy in the palm of her hand, and made it _lift_. The floor shuddered, and a wall of stone burst from the ground to cover the door.

“I’ll stay, too,” Alistair offered. “Having a Warden with them will have to count for _something_.”

Caedan paused. It had never really occurred to him beyond their first meeting that Alistair had gone through the training to be a knight. “Hurry it up, Amell,” Surana ordered.

Alright then.

They continued climbing their way through the tower, ensuring the safety of the Tranquil and the few scattered mages they found. Wynne’s sharp gaze made him cave and save the one or two Templars they ran across, too. “Do we have to?” he asked after helping the First Enchanter out of the Harrowing Chamber as Irving and Wynne discussed how to best the break the barrier surrounding Cullen.

“Amell.” He half expected Irving to give him lines.

“ _Stay back!_ ” Cullen scrabbled with his sword when the barrier dropped.

Morrigan scoffed. “Is the boy so helpless he cannot know when the Fade ends and our world begins? Leave him here, if he insists on refusing our help.”

“Come, young man,” Irving instructed. “The Knight-Commander will be anxious to see you whole.”

Alistair strode forward to meet them when they reached the last floor. “You took _hours_. What—?”

“Later,” Caedan promised in an undertone. He crossed to Surana, wrapping an arm around her waist and blocking her from Cullen’s view. Years had passed and nothing had yet come of it, but his habits died hard.

Caedan let the First Enchanter deal with Greagoir. Surana pressed two fingers to the crook of his elbow in farewell. After a few moments he followed her. “What _did_ happen with Jowan?”

He shrugged helplessly. “He’s a blood mage.”

“That damn fool,” she whispered. “Have you…?”

“...No.”

Surana held her arms across her middle. “So he might be dead, too.”

A Jowan-sized anguish spread within him. “...I’m a Warden,” he managed a bleak version of the grin he was going for. “I made it.” The smile she gave him was a little stronger.

“That, or these are the most sadistic demons I’ve ever encountered.”

“We passed our Harrowings. No demons.”

“No demons.”

Looked like everyone was ready to go. “Come with us.”

Surana studied his face. What was different, he wondered, between the mage who had woken from his Harrowing and the Warden trying to rouse Ferelden? “No.” It was the saddest sounding word he’d ever heard from her. “Wynne’s going with you. Irving will need someone here to help him. How does that sound? Trade your mentor for mine.”

“Don’t let his grin fool you,” Caedan warned, “he’s a taskmaster if I ever saw one.”

She _almost_ laughed. “He deals with the Knight-Commander. He has to be.”

Leaving pained him this time. It was nearly too much to watch Surana’s half-smile disappear. He was abandoning her, abandoning everyone he’d known over the past twelve years, to defend themselves against the Templars and try to rebuild in a broken Circle.

“There now,” Wynne turned to him once they were across the lake and she’d been introduced to the rest of the group at the inn. “If you are willing to sate my curiosity, how _did_ you two survive Ostagar?”

_A legend._ Caedan held the quip. “Long story,” he said instead. He told it to her as they wended their way south to Redcliffe. Wynne—she insisted he drop the title of Senior Enchanter and he'd suddenly never wanted to call her anything but—returned the favor by telling him of what transpired in the Circle.

“There was not much of a difference,” she admitted, “until Uldred staged his coup.” What she lacked in news, she made up in observation. No matter how personal.

He laughed at her assumption the arrangement he and Morrigan had was anything beyond physical. “It’s just _sex_ , Wynne. I know better.” Better than to think anything good would come of developing feelings that faded over time. Better than to assume she would stay beyond their lofty goal and vague plans of _kill an Archdemon, somehow_. Better than to hope a mage might have anything in this world worth hanging on to.

But Morrigan was observant as well, and she knew the dreams that woke him had become less about darkspawn and more about Tranquility. “For you,” she said when she placed a ring in his hand. “Since you seem to fear the Chantry still, something I can use to track you whatever your location.” An enchantment surged through the ring, powerful and more ancient than anything he had yet encountered.

“Who made this?”

“‘Twas my mother. She used the ring to know my location, and now I may do the same for you.”

The churning energy slowed when he slipped it on, stilled but for the force that pulsed with each beat of his heart.

“And there you are. Do tell me if you wish to get rid of it. I would loathe to lose such a valuable object.”

Around her, Caedan didn’t curb his tongue. “Would that be me or the ring?”


	4. This world is an abomination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!
> 
> This chapter contains alluded suicide attempts, and features both character death and assisted suicide.
> 
> Rated T for Tranquility is Terrible

“He looks _awful_.” Amell hummed in agreement. The three of them were already pale, half due to their natural tones and half due to their lack of sun, but Jowan had recently taken on a tint of grey. The circles under his eyes had purpled until they were almost black. Surana angled herself to watch Jowan sort through the tomes on a library shelf. “What’s he been up to?”

“Owain said he’d been in the chapel…” Amell’s face pulled into a grimace. “You don’t think he’s found the _Maker_ , do you?”

“About as much as I think you have,” she scoffed. Amell singing the Chant. That would be the day.

Jowan returned with three books under his arm, one for him and two for Amell. Amell flipped through both of them until he found the pages he was looking for and resumed scribbling his notes. Every few sentences he would stop and scan for another page in one or more of his seven open books. His stack of parchment rested on top of another two. When he finished with a sheet he would move it far enough to be out of the way of his next thought. Surana raised her own treatise to avoid ink splatter. One of Amell’s finished pages landed on Jowan’s book. Then a second, and a third, and the fourth brought Amell out of his frenzy.

“You’re not reading.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not…” Amell glanced to her for help. “Even when you _don’t_ read you get snappy if my stuff gets…” Amell placed a hand on Jowan’s knee. “Are you okay?” Jowan looked between Amell’s face and hand, as if startled by the contact.

“I’m fine.” His voice came out reedy.

Amell’s hand went from Jowan’s knee to shoulder. “If something’s happened—”

“No, no, nothing’s…! It’s not the Templars or anything, it’s…”

Surana changed places to rest her hand on his opposite shoulder. “Jowan…” Beneath her hold, she sensed a growing sob.

The First Enchanter entered the library, followed by Cullen. In an instant Surana was in the small space between Amell and Jowan. She bent her head low and regardless of her feelings toward the Maker prayed to Him for the Templar to overlook her white hair next to Amell and Jowan’s black. Two arms wrapped around her. Nothing could be done if the Templar ordered her away, but with the First Enchanter so near surely he wouldn’t…

“Young man,” Irving stood before them, a somber expression on his face as he spoke to Amell. Cullen stood a respectful distance away. “I must ask you to accompany me.” Amell threw an alarmed look at them before he stood to follow the First Enchanter. Irving keeping Amell with him was hardly odd, but coming to him out of the blue like this with a Templar escort instead of just sending a message…

“May I ask what this is about, First Enchanter?” Never let it be said a Templar presence made her bite her tongue.

Irving’s tone was apologetic. “I am afraid not, dear girl.”

Amell did as one could only do when the First Enchanter beckoned: he followed. Surana managed to get a squeeze from his fingers before he circled the table. Cullen peeked at her then, and even as Jowan’s arm around her shoulders drew tighter she straightened her spine and held his gaze. She would not be cowed.

Amell did not return that evening, nor was he back before lights-out when the Knight-Lieutenant made a count of the apprentices. Surana watched as she stood at attention by her bunk. The Knight-Lieutenant made no note of Amell’s absence. She slept fitfully, any Templar patrol outside or an apprentice turning on their mattress alerting her. It was well past midnight when the door opened. She faced away from the entrance and could only hope her ears snapping back hadn’t been noticed. There was the rumble of Irving’s voice, two sets of armored feet on the floor. The feet dragged… Were they carrying something? The steps retreated, crisper that time, Irving’s voice again, and the door closed.

Surana bolted upright. She peeked into Amell’s bed to be sure— _yes!_ —and lowered herself from the top bunk to pad over to Jowan. He awoke at her touch. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to Amell.

“Where was he, do you think?” Jowan whispered as they knelt by Amell’s side. His breathing was shallow and his skin clammy, but he was in the deepest sleep she’d ever seen.

“You don’t think…?”

“ _The Harrowing?_ ” Surana slapped her hand over Jowan’s mouth. Someone grunted and rolled over. “Sorry. But if that _was_ his Harrowing, and he’s passed…”

“He’s a mage. A proper mage.”

Jowan interlocked his fingers with Amell’s. “A proper mage…”

Morning roll call was taken and still Amell did not stir. “He _is_ fine, isn’t he?” Jowan pleaded. “They wouldn’t have brought him back if he wasn’t _fine_.” Surana chewed the inside of her lip. As much as she wanted to be at Amell’s side when he came to…

“I’ll go speak with the First Enchanter. He can’t be busy if Amell’s not there for tutoring.” Not necessarily true, but it was better than doing nothing. She tucked a strand of hair behind Amell’s ear before departing.

* * *

She was stuck in the closet Amell shoved her in for three hours. Despite her and her magic raging at the door, it remained solid. Of course. Furniture in the Circle was impervious to such silly things as fire. When a young apprentice finally let her out, she stormed off to find Amell.

She didn’t. He and Jowan were gone. The Knight-Lieutenant skipped their names during attendance and, when pressed, the other apprentices shook their heads. It occurred to her on the fourth day that between death and Aeonar, she hoped for death. Death was quicker. About a week after Jowan’s stunt Petra approached her.

“In the library downstairs. Amell—” Surana pushed by before she could say anymore.

Relief and outrage battled one another as she descended the curving steps. Relief that one of them was finally back with her, and outrage at their _sheer stupidity_ for thinking to destroy a phylactery. They both lost to apprehension when she saw him. At first, she wasn’t even sure it _was_ him. There was a book in his hand, yes, but it was the only one and the papers he wrote on were evenly stacked. His quill moved in brisk strokes across the top page but not a drop of ink was spilled. And his _hair_ …

Amell had always kept it as long as the Templars allowed. Now it was cut short to the base of his neck and evened around the sides. His hair was never very unruly, but whichever Templar cut it made it so perfectly symmetrical it was unnatural. Was that his punishment? Time in the dungeons and the Templars stripping him of one of the only personal freedoms the mages had? No wonder his heart was not in his reading.

“Amell?” Surana called softly, not wanting to frighten him.

There was no fright in him when he closed the book and set it down. No dazed blinking as he returned to the present from wherever his trance had taken him. No curiosity as he turned in the chair to face her, and the entire world stopped when she realized what they’d done to ensure he’d never disobey again.

“Yes?” He asked, the sunburst brand emblazoned on his forehead.

* * *

Wynne came back from Ostagar. When she found out what happened, she took Surana to one of the confessionals in the chapel. Privacy in which her tears could be shed.

“He passed his Harrowing,” she was not sure if it was an accusation or a question.

“I know, dear.”

That evening, she went through her own. She wondered halfway through if failing would really be so terrible. The demon mistook her weakness for an opening.

Despite herself, she kept visiting Amell. He was her best friend, the only one she had now. He told her what happened up until Jowan had fled. _Blood magic._ Worse yet was that Amell sounded puzzled by his own actions. As close as he could get to puzzled. He did not understand what had caused him to perform such deeds, and try as she might she could not answer. Just how did one explain emotion to a Tranquil?

“I do not understand why you come. It clearly causes you distress.”

“Do you remember distress?”

“No.”

“Then why do you care if I am?”

“I am easy to avoid. I do not understand why you go out of your way.”

_Because Jowan is gone. Because you cannot visit the Fade and I fear you will forget. Because we have both passed our Harrowing and here you stand and here I stand and we have never been more far apart._

“Because I miss you.”

She was in the dining hall when the screaming started. She dashed through the tower, dodging demons and abominations alike. It wasn’t until one had her cornered and she dispatched it with a fist made of stones from the floor that she remembered the Tranquil. Remembered _Amell_.

The Tranquil had been in the midst of their meal, too. “What is happening?” No fear, no concern.

“There are demons. You…here,” she picked up the bread knife and gave it to him. “Better than nothing.” His fingers curled past hers to grip the handle. As he did, she noticed the wave was starting to grow back into his hair. “Any longer and they’ll force you to cut it again,” she reached with her left hand to smooth it into place.

There were scars on his neck beneath his robes.

“When…did you get these?” She recalled her vigil over him after his Harrowing. There had been no marks on him then.

“Before the Rite of Tranquility.”

“You did this?”

“Yes. In the dungeon. They brought me my meal and…” he trailed off the way he did now when he could not remember. “I must have been very distressed.”

_Distressed._

Mages had two things they always discussed: which Templars to avoid at all costs, and what to do if they became Tranquil. Always, _always_ , unless an apprentice asked for the Rite instead of the Harrowing, they preferred death. “I couldn’t live like that,” Amell had croaked once, after a mutual friend of the three had undergone the Rite and they had sought comfort in the arms of the others. He was the first to speak, and if Surana didn’t know Amell never cried she would have expected to find tears when she stroked his cheek in the dark. “If that ever happened…”

_I’d want to die._

She took the knife from his hand. His eyes followed. No confusion, no reluctance. He just handed her back his only method of defense.

“Do you…want to know my name?” Her name was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. Considering Jowan and Amell were her closest friends, that was a whole lot of stupid. The Revered Mother in the Chantry she’d been raised in had always suspected she would turn out to be a mage. Maybe her name was some way of ensuring she _knew_ she was one of the Maker’s hated children. Jowan didn’t care enough to ask when they met if Surana was her first or second name. To him, names weren’t important. Amell likely knew, simply based on how they were introduced.

No reaction.

“It’s Amara. Amara Surana.”

Two weeks ago, Amell would have done that _thing_. Where he sucked in a breath and held it for half a second too long before he released it all in a guffaw of mirth too loud and too long for the Templars to ignore. Before she could think to take the words back he would be up, calling for Jowan to share his source of delight. Now, he simply stared at her.

“I do not understand what this has to do with the situation.”

“I know,” she whispered. She stepped into what was once a warm embrace. Amell was already dead. She had been visiting a corpse. “I’m sorry.” Blood soaked her hand as she drove the knife into his side. His hands seized at her as she lowered them both to the ground. His breaths came in short, noisy gasps. She drew back to look at his face. Pain, but only a politely puzzled pain. “I’m sorry,” Surana said again.

* * *

News eventually came from a place called Redcliffe Village. Jowan had been found. When he was returned to the Circle, Surana made sure to be standing in the entrance. He lunged for her despite the Templars dragging him away. “Surana! Where’s Caedan? What happened to—”

She found First Enchanter Irving in his study. “Let me see him,” she begged. “Let me tell him. He has a right to know.”

“I am sorry, dear girl. It is in the Maker's hands, now.”

Jowan was sentenced to death. It was, she supposed each night she hid herself away in the confessional, quicker.

Love couldn’t exist in the Circle. Friendship could, though. Mages were brought up too closely to one another for anything else. Jowan she had known for twenty years, and Amell for twelve. She had studied with them, slept with them, and considered them each her dearest and closest friends. But she did not love them.

That was the worst of it.


	5. Happy Name-Day and Merry Satinalia!

The Tranquil were the ones to discover the enchantment. By drawing a sigil on their parchment before writing their thoughts, a mage could transform the paper into a messenger bird that would speak the contents of the page aloud to its recipient. In Tranquil hands the resulting birds were small and translucent, with voices that spoke in monotone. As with all enchantments, they were different when the mages performed them.

Birds varied in size and shape, though they never got much larger than a seven-inch wing span. The colors were different, too, the exact species depending on which mage drew the sigil. When these birds spoke it was with the voice of their mage. The mages were also the ones to discover how to enchant the birds so they would not speak their message unless the receiving mage felt it appropriate to do so. Mostly, this was used to avoid Templars overhearing private correspondence.

Not that the knights didn’t know of the enchantment. In a tower with no windows and only one door it would be impossible not to know of the messenger birds. The enchantment had been refined some decades before Caedan had even been born, and by the time he was brought to Ferelden the politics of the system had been worked out. Officially, Templars allowed the use of the messengers by the Senior Enchanters and their protégés. Everyone else used them regardless.

“You start with the base symbol here and then add a glyph. Yes, just so.” Caedan glimpsed at the Templar stationed within Irving’s study. Irving absolutely knew, he couldn’t _not_ know, that most of the apprentices had already mastered the sending charm. It was possible the Templar knew as well. Enough birds flitted about the library for anyone with a grasp of numbers to doubt it was only the Senior Enchanters sending them. The one thing he disliked about being taken under Irving’s wing was being caught up in the Circle's politics by proxy.

“Now, you wait for the ink to dry. Since it’s in the center of the parchment, you may start writing and let it dry as you go. Some mages prefer to avoid the enchantment entirely and write around it. I have noticed no difference in the quality of the spell if you decide to write over the sigil instead. Should you write over another’s sigil, or should they write over yours, the resulting bird will either look like their bird and speak with your voice, or vise versa.”

He’d learned that already, too. More often than not it was Surana’s voice coming from Jowan’s cowbird, or Jowan’s voice from Surana’s bluethroat. Though he wasn’t around to hear them, he also knew his voice had just as often spoken from them as well, just as theirs had come from his wood thrush.

“That is all for today’s lesson.” Short, but there was no real need to teach him this. “Keep this first one so you may have a reference. Practice as much as you like, but try not to keep them lying around.” Not often, but enough it was a concern, a Templar might coerce another mage into framing someone as being a maleficar. Even if it was a different voice, it didn’t change the fact it was a certain someone’s bird who had delivered the message. “You may stay and conduct your own research, if you like.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter, but I’ve left some notes in the library.”

“Of course.”

Caedan gathered his books and inkwells into his arms and dashed down the stairs. There were only a few hours left until the afternoon meal. While he usually wouldn’t mind spending them nestled in the corner of Irving’s study, he _did_ have some notes to finish. That, and Knight-Commander Greagoir was due to make his daily visit with Irving soon. The fewer of _those_ he attended, the happier he’d be.

At the bottom of the staircase he skirted Senior Enchanter Uldred with a muttered, “Pardon me,” and slipped inside the closing door. Jowan was hard to spot in a crowd, but even when she was sitting down Surana’s white hair was easy to find. He was halfway to her when he heard someone hiss his name. Jowan waved him over to a shelf urgently.

“Look at this!” he shoved a quill-thin book under Caedan’s nose. Caedan pushed it back to ponder the cover. It had no words on the front or the spine, and was a familiar dark green color. The shade of leaves during the summer, though it took him a while to place it. He flipped it open to discover it was about the practice of blood magic.

“Well,” he said finally, giving it back to Jowan, “don’t go learning without me.” Jowan returned his grin with a chuckle and reshelved the text to pull down a thicker manual on healing spells. For Surana, then. Caedan followed Jowan to where she sat muttering over her notes and curling a spell between her fingers. On the way he cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. He hadn’t _entirely_ been joking…

“You’re here early,” Surana’s spell dissipated as she slid over to make more room on the bench.

Caedan shrugged. “Wasn’t that much to teach,” he admitted, taking a seat between the two. “Unless…” he looked around carefully before drawing them closer. “Did you know you can send a message via _bird_?”

Surana pushed his shoulder. “ _You._ Don’t joke like that. A Templar might think you’re serious.” Regardless, there was a smile on her lips.

“Look!” Jowan exclaimed in hushed tones. He grabbed Caedan’s other arm and pointed excitedly. “There’s one now!” Sure enough, a sparrow flitted overhead to land on an enchanter’s shoulder. Surana giggled helplessly.

“There she is! Go tell her!”

“ _I_ don’t want to tell anyone _that_!”

“Are you a mage, or aren’t you?”

The three looked over to a group of nearby apprentices. They kept their voices low as they argued amongst themselves, but they were definitely glancing in _their_ direction.

“I think they mean you,” Jowan whispered to Surana. “They did the same thing when you came down from your lesson.”

“What did _I_ do?”

Looked like it wouldn’t be long to find out. One separated herself from the group with a hissed, “ _Honestly!_ ” and strode to their table. She looked apologetic for a moment before straightening her stance to announce, “Cullen’s in love with you.”

* * *

A Templar. What had she done to deserve a _Templar_? Wasn’t it enough the Chantry considered her magic a curse and her very self a sin?

“That’s him?” Amell asked when she finally found the knight to point him out. He sounded skeptical, unimpressed by the youthful countenance and ill-fitting armor. Surana had thought the same when first introduced to the recruit. The Templar who usually stood guard over her lessons with Wynne had been transferred to…somewhere, and Cullen had taken over his post. She’d never even said a damn _word_ to him.

“He’s easy enough to avoid,” she mumbled.

“Except every day when you go see Senior Enchanter Wynne.” There was really nothing to say to that.

“Maybe you can talk to her,” Jowan suggested in spite of the hopeless twinge in his voice. “The Templars respect her as much as they _can_ respect one of us.”

It proved difficult to do, with Cullen standing so near every lesson. Finally she was able to scrawl her predicament on one of her papers for Wynne to read. “I’m sorry, dear,” Wynne’s kingbird told her in the apprentice dorms. “Nothing more can be done without arousing suspicion.” A little suspicion might not be a _bad_ thing, Surana thought. Things did improve some, though. Wynne came to meet her for their private lessons, and walked her back afterwards. Surana also started seeing more of the knight Bran around. Kind for a Templar, in that he was one of the few to disprove of _and_ speak against Templars who sought mages.

Her biggest worry was that Satinalia was coming. One of the few choices given to the mages was how often they attended Chantry services in the chapel. During Satinalia that privilege was revoked and they would all be crammed into the walls for liturgy over the week leading to the celebration. There were too many mages for them all to fit at once so they were divided between morning and evening services; only on Satinalia proper would they all be in the chapel for a full day. “The Gallows are more adherent,” Amell had told Surana and Jowan his first year in the tower. “We sing the Chant the entire week before, and then on Satinalia the apprentices stay for our service while the mages get to go to Kirkwall’s Chantry and hear the grand cleric give her sermon. Then it’s another week of the Chant.”

Neither of them needed to ask _which_ part of the Chant. There was only one Canticle mages needed to concern themselves with. “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” the sister delivering the passage this morning had a voice that carried well. “Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.”

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._ Surana’s mind intoned dutifully. _They shall find no rest in this world or beyond._ Her knees ached from kneeling on the stone so long. It was nearly time for the midday meal. Most the apprentices had grown restless. She spied Amell further down her row, head bent but eyes unfocused as his mind went someplace else. Jowan was a few spots behind him and nearer to her, paying attention to the sister reciting the Chant. That struck her as odd. Then she saw Cullen turn his face in her direction and she returned to scrutinizing the ground.

A hundred voices speaking, “Foul and corrupt are you who have taken My gift and turned it against My children,” signaled the end of the service. Surana waited for the crowd to thin. There was little use in pushing to be first out the door when the dining hall would be just as packed. Amell and Jowan waded toward her through the throng.

“I can never tell if morning or afternoon services are worse,” Amell grumbled, moving his arms to pop his back.

“Afternoon.” Jowan said firmly. “You spend all day dreading them. If the sisters like, they can go on _forever_.” Amell hummed in agreement. Their speaking of the Chant at least had to be done in time for lunch. Since mages attended as well as apprentices, evening services did not need to stop for their lights-out.

The sister who spoke the passage stopped near them. An initiate, Surana realized. Some of the detailing a sister of the Chantry would wear was absent on her robes. “Did you enjoy the service?”

“Yes,” Jowan answered quickly. He glanced to the Templar with her and added, “You delivered the sermon well.” The initiate smiled. Light caught her hair, turning it from brown to red. Was this what she had imagined when she joined the Chantry? Serving the Maker by getting locked in with His hated children? She and her Templar companion left. Most of the room was cleared, and the three went to follow.

Cullen stood by the door.

Surana dropped her gaze. She might have bolted, but before she could speed her pace Amell and Jowan both wrapped an arm around her. Jowan’s went across her hips, and Amell’s her shoulder. Instead of running, she took strength from the solidarity offered by their contact. Her head lifted and shoulders straightened. She challenged Cullen by staring him dead in the eye. He said nothing.

Her courage fled in the night. Everyone attending the evening Chantry sermon had returned before lights-out and the apprentice dorm was full of snores and muted comments of what to expect from the Satinalia service the next day. A few heads turned her way when she climbed down from her bed to the floor. Amell was closer. She crossed the cold stone to his mattress. He was on his side, but not asleep. He twisted his neck to look at her when she placed a hand on his shoulder, then rolled over and scooted to the edge of the mattress so there was room. Before lying down she looked towards Jowan. A light sleeper, he was already sitting. She beckoned him with a flick of her head and joined Amell. Jowan slid in behind her.

It was a tight fit with the three of them. The narrow beds were made to fit as many apprentices in a room as possible and didn’t lend themselves to sharing. A human child alone took up half the space. Surana nestled between them, eyes level with Amell’s chest. His hand settled on her waist, and Jowan stretched a leg over hers to lock it with Amell’s. Jowan reached a hand across as well, and in the scant light given by the torches near the doors she could see his fingers fidgeting with Amell’s hair. It was a long time before any of them slept.


End file.
